


Letters from Orlais - Prequel

by Kauri



Series: Letters from Orlais [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Sex, Drabble Collection, F/M, First Time, From Sex to Love, Letters from Orlais, Oral Sex, Smutlet, Vaginal Sex, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Orlais. Before Skyhold. There was the Herald, and her Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel I

**Author's Note:**

> They’d crashed together almost from the first, the deep bruises in his soul recognizing the ones newly torn into hers. There was lust from the start. A desire to lose herself in his arms, and a loneliness within him that cried out for her touch.
> 
> From an anon prompt on tumblr. Write the beginning. This is the beginning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon tumblr ask based on this exerp from Chapter 5:
> 
> "It hadn’t been slow. Slow is not a luxury she’s allowed anymore. They’d crashed together almost from the first, the deep bruises in his soul recognizing the ones newly torn into hers. There was lust from the start. A desire to lose herself in his arms, and a loneliness within him that cried out for her touch."
> 
> The ask: Write the beginning.
> 
> This is the beginning.

“Cullen, I need to speak with you.”

He blinks, hoping he appears more composed than he feels. He hadn’t heard her knock. “Oh! Yes.. of course.”

It’s early. Barely twilight. He’s still dressed for sleep -- threadbare tunic and an old pair of breeches -- and sitting on the narrow cot in the corner of the room. He runs a hand hastily through his hair, grimacing slightly, and sets aside the breastplate he’d been polishing. He stands, clasps his hands behind his back, formally, and looks at her, adopting what he hopes is a friendly and expectant expression.

She stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, then starts to pace the room.

He watches her, patiently. There’s a sort of nervous energy about her, just this side of frantic. The mark on her palm flares briefly, and she closes her fist over it, cheeks flushing. Eventually she settles against the edge of his desk, and looks at him, eyes hard.

She’s thin. Worn. Miserable.

It isn’t surprising, all things considered. But his heart clenches -- part sympathy, part _kinship_ \-- as she radiates waves of unhappiness through the small room.

He makes an awkward motion towards her. “Herald…”

 _“Don’t.”_ She hisses, voice low. “Don’t call me that. Please. Just…”

He nods, and lets his hand fall back to his side.

They stand in silence for long, long moments. She fidgets upon his desk like it’s made of ants, while he stands rock-steady, suddenly absurdly glad that his Templar training prepared him so well to wait, and watch.

After a while, her expression slides from agitation to numbness.

Somehow, that is harder to bear.

“Cullen, I…” Her head drops forward, loose hair hiding her face. “I’ve seen the way you look at me...”

His breath catches and he’s glad she can’t see his expression. His cheeks feel red-hot. _“Maker…”_ He swears under his breath. “I…” A muscle in his cheek leaps as he clenches his jaw.

A strained silence falls between them.

His mind races. _What_ can he possibly say?!

“Have you ever wanted to unbutton your own skin, step out, and just run away?” She asks in a broken voice, looking up.

_Everyday..._

The jolt of memory is so sudden his spine actually pops as it straightens.

_...since Uldred._

She’s speaking, but he can’t focus on the words enough to understand what she’s saying. His vision blurs and for a horrible half-heartbeat he’s afraid he’s going to faint.

But, just as suddenly as it came, the memory passes. Darkness and demons forced back into the corners of his mind.

He notices, in some abstract, disjointed way, that she is unlacing her trousers. But it isn’t until she pushes them down over her hips and presents herself, bare-arsed and bent over his desk that his lucidity abandons him completely.

 _“Maker have mercy.”_ He mummers, as every ounce of blood in his body rushes straight to his dick.

She’s breathing, raggedly, and he’s not breathing at all.

He wants very, very badly to know what she said. And he wants… Maker, how he wants her.

She turns to look at him over her shoulder. Tears sparkle at the edges of her eyes, and his throat closes a little, seeing it. He takes a step towards her without meaning to.

 _Rutherford!_ He thinks, furiously. _You absolutely_ **_cannot._ **

“I…” His voice is so rough it’s almost a rasp.

She’s beautiful. Between the swell of her arse, round and full, he can see _everything._ The soft, dark shadow of her pubic hair, curling against the tight seam of her. The slight flare of her inner lips, folds pink and faintly wet. Even the small, quivering pucker of her anus.

His cock throbs. It might have actually _twitched_ because her eyes drop down to the straining bulge in his -- entirely too thin -- breeches, and for half-a-heartbeat her expression lightens.

“I _know_ you want to.” She pleads. “Please… I… there’s no one… I’ll go to Harrit if I have to. Or-or _someone.”_ Her expression gets a little desperate, he can see her fingers curl, clawing at the desk. “But… I can’t… _can’t…_ go another minute without feeling _something_ other than-”

She cuts herself off, with a sound that’s too much like a sob. The _need_ in her voice is unbearable.

And he knows. He _knows._

She’ll batter herself senseless given the chance. Like he did.

He takes a step towards her.

He wants to tell her, but there is too many words in his mind, tumbling to break free, they catch in his throat. How much he recognizes her emptiness, her frantic rage. How long it has been since he touched another… and how absolutely lovely she looks bare, and open, and begging…

Another step forward.

How absolutely unprofessional for them… for _him_ to take advantage of her. How she steals his breath...

Another step.

How much of him it took to come back from the darkness. How he’ll never really leave…

A step.

How he’s never been so hard in his whole life...

“I-I don’t want...” Her voice is ragged. Breathless. “But, Cullen… I… just you.”

His breath leaves him in a shudder. He’s a handsbreadth away from her. He doesn't even remember pulling his cock out, but it’s there. Hot, and hard as stone in his hand. It would take so little for him to be inside her. Just the smallest push... She’s already so wet…

He sinks down to his knees. Or, maybe they collapse from under him. But it brings him to the level of her ass, and the glistening seam of her cunt is _so_ close it’s making him dizzy. He can just see her clit, half-hooded and buried. Pink and slick and _his_ for the tasting.

 _“Please.”_ She begs.

He opens his mouth, leaning forward. And when his tongue nudges her clit, he realizes it’s the very first time he’s ever touched her. She nearly jumps out of her skin.

Her taste dances on his tongue. She is silver. And heat. And sweet musk. He moans and presses his mouth more firmly against her. Kisses. Licks. Sucks. He runs his tongue up every fold. He can feel his thighs sticky and slick with his own pre-come. His balls ache faintly, and he cups a hand beneath them, so lost in the sensation of eating her, he can barely process her reaction.

She bites her tunic to keep from moaning out loud. But she can’t stop herself from shivering and pressing herself back and onto his tongue. She reaches behind herself, grabbing her own buttocks and spreading them, opening herself to him.

When he nuzzles her entrance she thrashes, begging.

“Cullen… _please!”_ She pants. “Please just… _fuck me!”_

“No.” He growls into her cunt. “I won’t last. I want you to - ”

She comes.

He feels her shudder and break, and instantly pulls away, driving himself up into her still quivering cunt. He slides in, inch by inch and feels her stretch reluctantly around him. Despite the faint resistance, he hilts himself with a broken roar. He hears her sharp cry, and has a moment's worry that she wasn’t ready to take all of him, that he hadn’t prepared her properly… stretched her… That he hasn’t done this right... But any remorse he had vanishes when she _clenches_ around him.

He hisses. _“Sweet Maker..._ Ah! _So tight!”_

She’s trying to thrust against him, but he grips her hips and holds her still. He’s already so close…

He moves, a little. Very, very carefully, and she nearly keens. He stops. Shivering. Grabs her by the back of her neck, holding her. Pressing himself into her as far as he’ll go. He doesn’t really thrust. Just rocks back and forth keeping himself deeply seated.

Her back arches, then bows, overwhelmed by the pressure.

She comes again as he grinds himself into her. She clamps around his dick in hard pulses. Her cries break through this time, and he has the presence of mind to blush, and worry that they’ll be caught. Then his own pleasure rises, lifts, carries him away…

_Now!_

He pulls out. Tries to step back, but his breeches tangle at his ankles and he stumbles, coming. He cups his hands over the head of his cock as he spurts. Tries to keep it from getting just _everywhere_ , but fails, utterly.

Awareness creeps back as his heart slows.

_Rutherford, you absolute ass. What have you done?_

She’s still on his desk, bent over and panting, arse slick with her pleasure. The backs of her legs are streaked with his come, and the desk itself is a wreck. Stacks of papers scatter to the floor, and in the corner the inkwell has tipped over, a puddle of black slowly creeping over his requisitions. The map he’d been studying is crumpled beneath her and partially torn. An ironic rip through the section of the Frostbacks where the breach hangs in the sky.

“I…” He gasps, color rising. “I…”

At the sound of his voice the spell breaks. At least for her.

She pulls back, and sets herself to right. Refastening her trousers and ordering her hair with such perfunctory motions, that he blinks, nearly offended. When her eyes meet his they are still a bit flinty. But they’ve lost the look of someone standing at the edge of some high and horrible pit, begging to be pushed in. And she seems… grounded.

Clearer, somehow.

He wants to reach for her. But he is a ridiculous mess. Still red and gasping like a landed trout, hair, likely standing on end, breeches around his ankles, both hands sticky, filled with his own come.

She takes his appearance in, briefly. And he thinks that he may have to quit the Inquisition after this, because _obviously_ he’ll never be able to look her in the eye again.

Or _himself._

But then the corner of her mouth lifts, and, small as it is, he realizes he’s never seen her smile before.

She is… Maker, she is so lovely.

He feels something in his own heart ease, a bit, and sighs.

She hesitates, and he suddenly wishes she would _say something_. Instead she reaches up and touches his cheek, gently. Soft against the rasp of his stubble.

She turns, and is gone.

_Maker._

He feels absurdly like he should go to the Chantry and confess, or _pray…_

But is isn’t right.

_Maker, please…_

Because there is only one thing he’d pray for. And he _knows_ it is unworthy. But…

_… please let that not be the last time._

 

  
  
  
  


 


	2. Prequel II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the beginning of Cullen & Trevelyan's love affair

He cannot stop thinking about her.

She was frequently on his mind before -- she _is_ after all a mage, possessed of an unsettling mark of questionable magical origin, _and_ the Herald of Andraste -- but now, it feels like there is barely an hour of the day where she does not invade his thoughts.

His dreams are worse. Or… _better,_ depending on one’s opinion of such things. They are certainly less corrosive than the standard issue demons and dismemberment routine. But, in their own way, just as infuriating.

A myriad of heat and bare flesh. A blur of sensation that, like all dreams, is at once strangely true, and truly strange. She’s in his arms, and he’s in her mouth, and her breasts -- breasts he’s never actually _seen_ \-- are soft, and full, and _sensitive_ beneath his hands. And the things she whispers to him, _begs_ him to do to her…

He wakes, more often than not, having spilled his seed in his sleep, messy, exhausted, and somehow _still_ aroused.

It doesn't help that she’s been in the Hinterlands, trying to validate the Inquisition’s very existence; while he sits at Haven, with far too few troops and far too much time to wonder where they’ve left things between them.

Or, if there even is a _them._

By the time a war council is called to herald the Herald’s return, he’s worked himself up into a deeply anxious, and sexually-frustrated mess.

She’s already in the war room when he arrives.

And she’s alone.

In a sudden flash of cowardice he wonders if he can back out of the room without her noticing.

But then she looks up. He clears his throat and shuffles forward, trying to cover his embarrassment. _Maker_ , he’d forgotten how beautiful she is. He sneaks a glance at her again, and she’s still looking at him. Not flustered, not hurried, just _looking._

 _She_ looks tired, but not unreasonably so. The tension that coils around her seems...less, somehow. And he can’t stop the sudden, uncharitable, gut-wrenching thought that it’s because she’d had Varric, or possibly Solas...

“Hello.” She says, softly.

He swallows. “Hello.”

They lapse into a silence while he thinks of a dozen things to say, and rejects them all in turn. He _wants_ to tell her he’s glad she’s back. That she’s safe. Wants to tell her he’s missed her. Wants to remain professional, and aloof, and inquire to the condition of the Hinterlands. Wants to tell her she’s done well by the Inquisition. Wants to apologize, because surely he floundered when they… when she…

Most of all, he wants very badly to touch her.

_Rutherford, you fool._

Still, he takes a hesitant step forward, fingers twitching.

The door to the war room opens and both Josephine and Leliana step in, and after brief salutations, and expressions of gratitude towards the Herald’s efforts, there such a flurry of organizing the reports from the Hinterlands, and related missives, and new developments, that for a brief time he forgets everything in the face of the work they’ve yet to do.

It is nearly two hours later before Josephine thinks to ask if Master Dennet had agreed to supply the Inquisition with horses.

 _“Yes…”_ Trevelyan says, doubtfully. “But, not unless we set up some protections to safeguard the roads and fortify the village against future attacks.”

“Safeguard?” Josephine taps her chin with the feathered end of her quill. “What is it he wants?”

“Watchtowers, mostly. He drew up some maps of possible locations. He wants Inquisition aid in securing the areas, and with the actual construction as well.”

“So little.” Josie muses. “And you have these maps?”

“They’re in my room.” Trevelyan doesn't even blink. “Commander, perhaps you’d like to approve of the locations before we dispatch any forces?”

_In her…_

His cock twitches, gleefully.

“Uh…” All three women turn to look at him, almost in unison. He hopes he doesn’t look nearly as horrified as he feels. “I would like… Yes. Thank you.”

“Do so.” Leliana rolls her eyes. “Josephine and I will continue to argue over how best to dispatch the new agents the Herald brought.”

“There will be _no_ _arguing.”_ The Ambassador insists firmly. “I will merely convince Sister Nightingale to see reason.”

Leliana and Trevelyan laugh, and when she turns to go, he follows at the Herald’s heels, feeling a bit like an obedient and over-eager Mabari. He tries to remind himself that this is strictly business, that there was no innuendo, that she isn’t going to take him to her room, bend over, and let him -

 _“Oh!”_ He’s so much at her heels that she backs right into him when she opens the doors of the Chantry. “Apologies.” He steps back, hastily and flushes absolutely scarlet, certain she could feel that he’s embarrassingly, unprofessionaly, _inexcusably_ hard. “Maker.”

If she notices, she mercifully says nothing. And he follows her the rest of the way to the small cabin they’ve assigned her, with as much distance between them as possible.

When she lets him inside he tries very hard not to look at the bed… or the desk… or the floor. Really, any surface that might cause him to -

 _Stop blushing!_ He thinks, furiously. _There is absolutely no reason to think she’d..._

“Are you alright, Cullen?” She asks, softly.

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

“Of course.” He says, clasping his hands behind his back in an effort to hide his sudden, white-knuckled grip.

“There...aren't any maps.” She admits, and his heart gives an unreasonable, hopeful lurch. “I just wanted to…”

He feels the blood surge happily into his cock.

“...Talk.” She finishes, hesitantly.

“Oh.” Disappointment crashes through him. It isn’t just sexual frustration. It _hurts,_ he’s a little surprised to realize. “I… of course.”

She’s looking at him closely, as if she’s trying to divine something. He keeps his face as carefully blank as he can, recalling Templar trainings on being impassive and inscrutable. At last she sighs, and turns away.

“I… owe you an apology.” She says.

He closes his eyes, waiting.

“I’m… not sure that we… that I should have… It’s… I… ” She shakes her head. “And you…”

 _Brace yourself, Rutherford._ He thinks. _This is where she tells you that you're such an atrocious lay, that she never wants to see you again._

“Well… I’m sorry.”

He nearly leaves at that. A lifetime of blushes, and he knows his cheeks are white now, not red. His cock deflates, reluctantly. Defeatedly.

“And…” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you.”

He looks at her, surprised. And the expression on her face… He’d been so wrapped up in his own embarassed misery, that he hadn’t noticed _hers._

“For?” He croaks. Participating in -- what is actually far too one-sided and stilted to be considered a conversation.

“For what you did. I’ve...” She blushes, beautifully. “...Been thinking about you… constantly.” She gives an awkward, little one-shouldered shrug, and he nearly kisses her then and there.

“Oh?” He asks breathlessly. It comes out more of a sigh and less of a question.

“All good things.” She admits with a shy smile. And something in his heart tears loose and starts cantering around inside him with _joy._

It’s the second time he’s seen her smile. And it steals his breath.

He realizes belatedly he hasn’t actually spoken when her expression starts to cloud, and he stops being such a blithering, spineless fool, and reaches out to touch her hand, very, very, carefully. “I was hoping…” He says, just as carefully. “That you would be willing to… that you’d consider… that is… if you wanted…”

They are terrible conversationalists, he realizes.

But she seems to know what he wants, because her hands lift, hesitating for only a moment before they settle on the lacings of his trousers. His breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away. His cock promptly hardens, blood rushing to it so quickly that he’s a little dizzy. And, by the time she has his pants undone and pulls him out, he’s already hard as rock.

 _“Maker.”_ He groans when he feels her wrap her hand around him, pumping slightly.

He thinks, quite suddenly, of her taste, her smell, of everything he did to her in his dreams. Then, he promptly stops thinking of anything at all, when she bends, and takes him into her mouth.

The sound he makes is closest to a shuddery squeak.

“Mmmm?” She asks lips around his tip, and _sucks._

He presses his gloved knuckles against his mouth and bites down hard to keep from crying out.

It’s warm, and wonderful, and she keeps using her tongue… He forgets to breathe and nearly blacks out. But, thankfully she reaches her other hand into his breeches to cup his balls, and he moans with a startled explosion of breath. Gasping, growling. He has the faint idea that his hands are in his own hair, pulling, half-desperate, and his hips are are starting to move of their own accord, but everything, every single sensation pales utterly to the warm _suck-pull_ on his dick.

She bobs, up and down, slow and somewhat hesitant. He knows in some abstract way that she’s feeling for his reactions, gauging what he likes best. He nearly tells her not to bother, that he likes it _all._

She keeps one hand around the base of him, pumping in time with the movements of her mouth. She kisses around the flared head, and runs her tongue down the seam of his frenulum. She eases each of his balls out of his breeches, mouths each one, tenderly, before sucking each testicle entirely into her mouth, first one, then the other. He gasps, and his his hands fly to her hair.

She chuckles, just a little, and slides her tongue back up his length before pressing him between her lips again. She takes more of him this time, presses himself down and down until he bumps the back of her throat.

 _“Ah! Maker!”_ He thrusts shallowly, unable to still his hips.

His balls draw up and he spills a little pre-come, has a momentary qualm that she’ll be disgusted and pull back, but she _moans_ around him --  the vibration running up his shaft and lancing him straight in his spine -- and _swallows._

He nearly comes.

 _That --_ He thinks, -- _Would be even more embarrassing than his previous performance._

And with a tremendous effort, he pulls her off.

Her eyes are a little glazed, but she smiles. She was just sucking his cock, and _she smiles._

“I’ve wanted to do that…” She admits, breathlessly, wiping her chin.

 _“I’ve_ _wanted_ _you_ to do that.” He admits back. Trying to distract himself with conversation until he can calm down enough to risk touching her.

 _“Oh?”_ There’s a playful glint in her eye. Something light and mischievous that he’s never seen before. “After you met me, how long _was it_ before you wanted me to suck your cock?”

“Would you like that in seconds or minutes?”

“Minutes will be fine.”

“Then, one.” He catches her eye, holds it, and feels something shift between them.

“Oh.” She says, voice small, cheeks coloring.

There’s a moment of charged, utterly awkward silence. He’s not sure if he’s revealed too much -- a strange thought considering his dick is out, still wet from her mouth, and hard as silverite. He shifts on his feet and his erection bobs, distracting her.

Neither of them speak, she simply takes his hands and guides them to the laces of her breeches. He’s less adept at undressing her than she seemed to be. His gloved fingers fumble at the laces, and he has to take them off. Then, he snarls the leather string into a knot and has to take a minute -- on his knees, breathing the warm scent of her navel -- before he can unsnarl it and push her breeches down over her hips. He licks his lips.

The smalls she wears are _very small._ He takes a moment to admire her, fingers beneath the slender straps, before he pulls them down around her thighs.

_“Maker’s Breath...”_

A thatch of fine, dark hair is caught between her legs, he can see wetness of her, gleaming through the curls. Her slit is barely visible, hidden and shadowed. He rubs his finger up between the center of that divide, finding, and worrying at her clit.

She moans, cants her hips, and rubs herself against his finger.

He says something _very very bad,_ and presses the digit up and inside her.

He works her, pumping the finger in and out, wiggling it, adding another to the sound of her cry, and the feel of her stretching around him. _“Maker,”_ He pants. “I want…”

She pulls away from him, with a gentle press on his shoulder and backs herself towards her bed. He breeches are still around her knees, so she turns, crawling on her hands and knees until she’s fully on the bed. Then she wiggles her arse at him.

“Cullen…”

He’s on her before he can even think to do so. Grips himself at the base of his cock and drives up, and deep inside her.

She resists for a moment, just as before, then opens, gasping and shuddering as he bottoms out. There’s just as much heat here as there was in her mouth, and the same kind of sucking sensation. He growls and tries to press deeper and her back arches against the pressure. He puts a hand on her hips, and -- with a brief prayer to the Maker to help him last longer than a few strokes -- starts to thrust into her.

He takes it slow. A stilted pace where he pauses frequently, panting over her back, sweating -- neither time has he actually managed to remove any of his clothes -- and willing himself not to come. For all the starts and stops, she doesn’t seem to mind. She stays up on her hands and knees, swearing and moaning, pressing back into him. He says things, mummers praise and broken pieces of the Chant of Light.

He slides in and out, in and out, starts to feel himself rise high enough that can’t stop, and wonders briefly if he’ll come first and disgrace himself, utterly. So he snakes his arm over his hip and presses his fingers against he the open seam of her, sliding them over the slickness of her folds until he finds her clit, and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.

She screams, and he blanches, _Maker,_ half of Haven must have heard that.

But he claps his free hand over her mouth, and does it again. He catches the sounds she makes in his palm, working the sensitive nub relentlessly, until he feels her tighten around him, coming. She writhes and bucks so hard she nearly unseats him, and he has to use his weight to pin her down and keep her still. Pushing her forward, until she’s flat on the bed and trapped beneath him.

The position changes the angle of her, there’s less depth but more _pressure_ , and the rounded meat of her arse _bounces_ with the force of his thrusting.

He watches as long as he can, but the _feel_ of her -- warm, and slick, and _gripping_ _him_ \-- combined with the sight of her arse, is too much, and he pulls his hands back, grabs each of her buttocks and _fucks her._ He pulls her ass cheeks apart until he can _see_ where they’re joined, rubs his thumbs against the split of her lips, and thrusts _once more,_ as hard, and deep as he can, before he pulls out, coming with a shattered roar.

He thinks, as his breathing settles, that, perhaps coming all over her bed, was not the most gentlemanly thing he could have done.

But the sight of her as she struggles back to her hands and knees, the glimpse he gets of her swollen and sex-slickened cunt, nearly has him pressing her back down into the bed and taking her again.

Instead he tucks himself away, still sticky and half-hard, and he winces, a bit at the over sensitivity.

She’s looking at him, still on hands and knees, and there’s something unsteady and surprisingly _vulnerable_ about her. Then she _lunges_ at him. Gets herself in his arms, and presses herself against him, ignoring the breastplate, and the way he surely crushes her against it. They stay like that for a long, long while, just holding each other and breathing the same air, and experiencing the same calm, yet charged moment of whatever-the-hell-this-is.

At last she sighs. “I missed you.”

“I’m very glad you’re back safe.” He says, in a voice huskier than it should be.

 _Rutherford,_ He thinks, _You lovesick fool._


	3. Prequel III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few firsts for the lovers.

It has been so long since he _wanted_ something for himself.

He’s asked for things, of course. Prayed to the Maker. Begged Andraste for guidance, and protection, and, in darker times, for death. He’s asked to be stronger. Better. He’s wished for forgiveness.

But the last time he simply _wanted_ he was a boy of twelve, standing on a hill, watching a group of Templar’s at the Chantry in Honnleath, all silvery armour and glittering purpose. He can still remember how his heart _ached._ How he wanted, more than anything, to ride off with them. To _be_ them.

And now he wants a Mage.

Is _infatuated_ with a Mage.

Longs to feel her under his hands, to fill the empty spaces of his day with the sound of her laugh. Wants more of what they’ve had. Wants… just, _wants._

He’s quite sure he hasn’t felt this way about anyone before.

Most of his life had been spent in the Order. Relationships as a whole were... not really possible. His list of past infatuations is quite small. His list of past lovers, even smaller. Any sexual experiences he had, were largely relegated to inept fumblings as a half-grown recruit; hurried affairs taken against a wall between duties; or -- most commonly -- quiet moments in his own bunk with his own hand.

It was simply another limitation placed on his life by the Order. One he’d grown accustomed to.

So the _intensity_ of this newfound whatever-it-is, startles him. It’s nothing at all like any other sex he’s ever had. Which is _surprising,_ considering in many ways it’s very much like _all_ the sex he’s ever had. It’s still hurried, still secretive. The heady rush of two bodies crashing together simply because they must.

But… when he touches her… when he’s _in_ her… the world melts away, eclipsed by sensations and emotions that are often beyond his capability to process, let alone describe. He drowns and he soars. Consumed. Consuming.

Yet he, and Trevelyan…  they hardly speak beyond the necessary interactions during War Councils.

She’s gone so frequently, trying to establish an Inquisition foothold in the Hinterlands, or, off to Val Royeaux petitioning to the Chantry. When he _is_ alone with her, enough to talk, there isn’t space between the heat and heaviness of bodies joining for words. And after, Trevelyan often puts herself to right and is gone before he’s even managed to collect his thoughts.

Or pull up his pants.

He hopes that it is… merely _habit_ on her part. She could not have been leisurely in any of her own encounters at the Circle, and he’s never specifically _asked_ her to linger...

Still, he does not discredit that physical interactions may be all she wants of him.

All she may ever want of him.

 _Even that is more than you deserve._ He thinks, darkly. Ignores the way his heart hollows out.

He scuffs the toe of his boot in the snow, trying to distract himself from his morose thoughts, _and_ his entirely too clear view of the blacksmith, where Trevelyan is donning her new set of armor. And Harritt -- the lecherous filth -- is hovering around her backside, doing _something_ that looks wildly inappropriate from this angle. He averts his eyes, for the hundredth time, trying to convince himself that this is all a normal part of blacksmithing.

Remembering, _vividly,_ that once, in a fit of anguish, Trevelyan had nearly suggested that she and Harritt should… that they could…

The anvil at the center of the forge is rather large. The perfect height for Harritt to bend her over, peel off her breeches, and...

 _“Damnit.”_ He kicks at the snow again, altogether failing to ignore the way Harritt ghosts his hands along her curves, checking the fit of her armor. He swears under his breath and shifts, making mental notes to move the blacksmith to the far side of the lake where, in the future, he will be spared such sights.

He’s so absorbed with engaging in a brief, but fierce vision of throttling Harritt, and _trying_ to convince himself, that of the myriad of emotions he feels for Trevelyan, jealousy isn’t one of them; that he fails entirely to notice her approach until she’s standing directly in front of him.

“Cullen?”

 _“Maker’s Breath.”_ He scrubs a hand through his hair and hopes he doesn’t look too distracted, or foolish, or --

He blinks in surprise when he gets a good look at her. The armor she’d been wearing had been plain and rather ill-fitting. A spare set of leather and plate better suited to low-ranking scouts, than Andraste’s own Herald. This though… a proper mages surcoat and tunic, all done in shades of rose and tawny gold and cinched at the waist. The natural lines of her curves are softened by steel, broken by the pointed breastplate engraved with the Inquisition’s crest. Bits of mail flash at the vulnerable junctures at her shoulders and elbows. The whole effect is subdued, a muddied sunset through grey clouds -- but rather stunning.

“You look-- “

_What does one say of armor?_

“-- well protected.” He clears his throat. “Uh… _Sturdy.”_

He nearly kicks himself.

“Andraste, preserve me.” He mutters under his breath.

She gives him a look that’s not quite a frown, and not quite a smile. Something level and measuring. The silence stretches between them, and he _knows_ he needs to find something to say before she grows annoyed with him… or realizes he’s an idiot, or…

A glimmer of white drifts down between them and her inscrutable expression splits into a smile.

“It’s snowing!”

He raises a brow at her.

It is the Frostbacks. Recent snowfall dusts the ground, the trees around them, and along the stones of Haven’s outer wall. Everywhere, really.But she beams as if this something novel, and unexpected, and he can’t help but smile back. At least until she tilts her head back, mouth open, and tries to catch a snowflake.

She misses. The snowflake hangs against the side of her mouth for an instant before she licks it away with a brush of her tongue.

He freezes. A bolt of _longing_ shoots up the back of his knees.

He has never kissed her.

But, if he kissed her now, he wonders if he could still feel the snowflake’s touch. If her tongue would be cold for a briefest moment, before warming, melting with the heat of their --

“Do you?” She asks, again.

What?

_Shit._

The corner of her lips lift, a little, and his attention snaps instantly back to her mouth.

“Have a moment?” She elaborates, again. “To talk?”

“Talk?” He echoes. “I… yes. Of course.”

They amble out of the center of the training field. Herald and Commander. He keeps a respectful distance, she compliments the battle formations his soldiers are practicing, and they speak, stiltedly, of banal Inquisition matters. Despite his blush -- _everyone_ is used to the Commander’s blushes --  they draw only a cursory interest, and by the time they reach the curve of the treeline they are entirely alone.

He waits for her to speak, but she doesn’t. Just meanders through the trees, picking at random bits of herbs, and startling several nugs. She fidgets when she’s bothered. He’s learned to watch her carefully at the war table; she has a tendency to shift the markers when she’s thinking.

In the silence he returns to fantasizing about kissing her. They _are_ alone, after all. It would be the perfect opportunity, and likely she would not object to such a display.

Now _he’s_ fidgeting.

 _Courage, man._ He thinks. _You command an army._

He lengthens his stride until he’s alongside her, and reaches, tentatively for her. He brushes the back of her knuckles, nothing more, and she responds immediately, threading her fingers through his as if this was the most natural thing in the world. He tugs her to a stop, and they stand there, alone, simply holding hands. It’s peaceful. And quiet.

Kiss her.

The snow is heavier now, gathering in the fur of his surcoat, and she reaches up to brush it off his shoulders. He catches her arm as she draws back, cups her elbow and pulls her a little closer.

Kiss her.

His gaze drops to her lips and he leans in, just a bit. Already imagining the soft, warm press of her lips.

_Kiss her._

But just then she fidgets away, bending down to pluck at a scraggly cluster of Elfroot she spotted.

_Damnit._

She pulls away entirely to tuck the weed away in her pouch, and he runs his hand through his hair in frustration. The snowfall makes it damp, and the damp makes his hair curl, and stand on end. He spends the next few moments trying to order his hair, and nearly misses what she says when she finally speaks.

“Cullen? Has… has Leliana spoken to you? About us?”

“What?” He croaks.

“Leliana. Has she spoken to you about us?”

_Us._

The word spirals through him.

For a instant the world around them stills, and the ground shifts beneath his feet. It’s a strange, sudden sense of vertigo that’s eclipsed almost immediately by a fierce burst of joy.

She said, _us._

With no awkward hesitation, or vague gesture to diminish the word. Just small, and simple and perfect.

He feels the startled exhale of her breath against his face before he realizes he’s closed the gap between them, and pressed his lips to hers.

For one bright and brilliant moment he feels utterly happy.

Then she stiffens in his arms, and he pulls back, flushing.

“I…”

 _Void take you, Rutherford._ He presses his lips together, tries to kill the warm taste of her that lingers.

She looks stricken. Hesitant.

“My... apologies.” His voice is hoarse, eyes downcast. “I--”

She snags her fingers at the top of his breastplate and _pulls._ And this time, she kisses _him._

Awkwardly. Their teeth clack together, and he stumbles back half a step. But she doesn’t pull away.

Then, _oh..._

When she parts her lips to draw breath, he presses forward, deepening the kiss. Slides his tongue against hers, and all he can think is, Soft, and Sweet, and _Yes._ The warmth of her shudders through him, and it takes him a minute to realize that _she’s kissing him back,_ hands tangled in his curls, while his are wrapped around her arse.

She makes small, breathless sounds as she kisses him. Little gasps, and hitching breaths, and he swallows every one, greedy for more. The initial softness and sweetness melts away, edged with a desperation that’s part him, and part her.

He’s hard. He can feel himself grinding gently against her, and wonders if he can stop kissing her long enough to have her, arse up in the snow.

He’s vaguely aware of her whispering his name. Mummering… _something_ in the space between kisses, and pulls back, panting.

“There’s a cabin… further along... ” She says, breathless, resting her forehead against his. Their lips meet again, briefly. “We could --”

He scoops her up into his arms, and slants his mouth back against hers. Her touch skims along his jawline, and he can feel the way her lips part on a smile. His tongue darts in, eager to taste her again.

They make their way to the cabin slowly. She’s light enough in his arms, but they kiss until they’re both dizzy, and he staggers, drunkenly, nearly dropping her.

The cabin is larger than he expected, with front and back rooms. It is empty, save for the scattered furniture and clutter of notes and books. A fine dust sits over everything, motes shimmer through the air, catching the light. The whole place has a feeling of emptiness, but not exodus. Whatever happened here…

“It belonged to an Apothecary who died at the Conclave.” She says quietly from the doorway as he sets her down.

Thoughts of the Conclave cool some of their ador, and they pause to look around.

A large desk sits in the corner, partially cleared off, with a modest stack of books and a quill standing in an inkwell, long since gone dry. Bundles of dried herbs line the walls, Elfroot, Rashvine, some he can’t even identify.

His mouth dries when he sees the bed. A large, four-postered thing. Too extravagant for such a modest cabin. There’s a statue of Andraste on the bedside table.

He can feel Trevelyan behind him. He feel the press of her armor against his spine. She slides her arms around him and he catches her fingers. Holding her.

He raises his eyes to the figure of Andraste, and makes a single, solemn promise.

This will be _long,_ and _slow._

He pulls off her gloves, first one, then the other. Folds them carefully over the back of one of the chairs before taking off his own. Then he winds their fingers back together, reluctant to break even this small point of contact.

He turns her, and begins to work at her armor, begrudgingly admiring Harritt’s work.

“You sound like a displeased mabari.” She notes with a small smile when he unbuckles her breastplate, and pulls it free.

“Ah.” He rubs at his nose, cheeks flaming. “I am… anything but displeased.” He says, setting the breastplate carefully on the chair, and turning back to her. His erection prominent beneath his breeches.

She grins. “Good.”

He undresses her, piece by piece. Removing greaves and pauldrons with a sort of reverent care. He folds her scarf carefully before working at the fastenings of her overcoat. And she cards her fingers through his hair when he drops to his knees to pull off her boots.

His fingers still though, when he reaches for the laces of her trousers. He can hear himself pray, a low, mumbled litany, beseeching the Maker’s Bride for guidance.

It is Trevelyan who answers.

Her fingers alight over his, and undo the laces faster than he would have managed. She pushes her smalls and breeches off her hips, stepping out of them, and one step closer, to him.

He mummers the last line of the prayer, inches away from her sex. And presses a small chaste kiss to the small triangle of hair below her navel, at the last. She makes a low, pleading sound and her hips shift in his grip. He chuckles, fingers tightening. He wants very much to bury his face between her legs and lose himself in the heat and taste of her. Wants to hear her cries and feel her jerk and struggle beneath his lips. But right now... right now there’s something else he wants even more…

His hands slide up from the swell of her hips and linger, gently on the bottom clasp on her tunic.

 _“Please…”_ He says, voice husky.

Her breath hitches, catches in her throat and she nods, silently.

He bares her. Slowly. Undoes each clasp as carefully as he’d attended the rest of her armor. Kisses each patch of skin he reveals. Inches his lips up from her navel and traces his fingertips across her belly and ribs. The tunic is reinforced with stays, and enough interior support that she doesn’t wear a breastband, he realizes, and has to pause to collect himself when he undoes another clasp, baring the underside of her breasts.

“Maker…” He murmurs, lips against her skin. He’s… he’s a little dizzy.

His fingers trace along the bottom of her breasts, a gentle, tickling touch that she arches against. “Cullen…”

His mouth goes dry with anticipation, and he has to pause, gripping the fabric of her tunic, and fighting the urge to simply _tear_ it off her. That would indicate a hideous lack of self-control, _and_ she’d only have to go back to Harritt to have it fixed…

There’s a small spurt of jealousy and he fumbles the next clasp, swearing, a little.

When the clasp finally slides free, she takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the tunic parts, gaping, caught at the final clasp at her throat. Her nipples are so hard he can see them faintly under the remaining fabric still stretched across her breasts. He runs his hands up her half-bared curves, cups them. Hesitant. Still unsure that he’s allowed to _look,_ let alone _touch._ The tips of his fingers circle the very peaks of her breasts, teasing her for a moment, before sliding even higher, to the very last clasp.

This one parts easily, and, breath caught in his throat, he slides the tunic off her shoulders entirely before taking a step back to look at her.

She’s… _Maker,_ there are hardly words to describe her. All graceful curves; lush hips and breasts… Rounder, softer, _fuller_ than he expected. She wears absolutely nothing but the small went prints from his mouth that trail up her torso. His cock throbs heavily in his breeches, somehow half-eclipsed by the _thunderous_ pounding of his heart.

He’s not sure how long he stands there staring, thunderstruck with wanting her. But it’s long enough that her expression shifts from something soft and warm, to something edged with uncertainty... then, hurt. She makes a small motion, as if she means to cover herself, and he steps forward, alarmed, knowing he’s failed in this too.

“Don’t.” He pleads. “You’re so… beautiful is too small a word. It’s lacking… _I_ lack… and… I want --” His cock _twitches,_ robbing him of whatever capacity he has for coherent thought. “I want…” He makes a small, self-deprecating sound. “I’m not very good at this, am I?” One of his hands floats up, and presses against her cheek in soft apology.

Her expression clears, and she turns her face into his touch, presses a kiss into his warm, broad palm before sliding out of his reach, down to her knees, and…

_Oh._

_Oh Maker._

She mouths him through the fabric of his trousers. The heat of her breath, and wetness of her mouth obfuscated by the black lambswool. Even the touch of her lips, moving restlessly against his cock, is muffled. Yet the effect is immediate. His balls tighten with arousal, and a small damp patch forms on the inside of his smalls.

He doesn’t realize she’s working at the fastenings of his trousers. Not until she has them open and pushed down around his thighs. The cold air stirring around his bare legs is shocking, at first, but nothing compared to the _jolt_ that shoots through him, when the warmth of her mouth envelops the head of his cock.

He watches as she sucks him. The way she presses forward, determined to take as much of his length as she can. The slow, hollow-cheeked retreat that pulls pre-come from his tip with every upstroke. Down and up, again, and again. Watching her -- lips stretched wide around his cock -- makes him rethink his decision. It would be so, so easy to press his hips forward, and fuck her mouth until he’s sated.

But the sight of her, bare beneath the hair the fans out around her shoulders, reminds him that he wants _more_ than just her mouth.

He pulls her to her feet, groaning when she releases him with a wet _pop,_ and starts undressing. He wants to side himself against her, and _feel_ her, and he can’t do that through leather and plate. He pulls off his boots, and steps free of his drooping trousers and smalls. Unstraps his greaves, and works at the fastenings of his breastplate.

It’s her turn to watch, and she does, eyes gleaming as he shrugs out of his surcoat. He pauses, briefly, when he’s down to his tunic. He’s no great beauty, he knows. Just a half-broken man forged by Chantry flames. Whatever is left, is _hers._ But, small as it is, the startled breath that breaks from her when he bares his torso nearly makes him offer to put his clothes back on.

“I… I’m sorry I’m not more…” He shrugs, one shouldered.

His shoulders and forearms are webbed with small near scars, no different than one encounters from any warrior who’s faught too long, and been too slow with their shields. A particularly vicious looking one splays from his collarbone, and down the inside of his arm, nearly to the elbow. But it’s his half-ruined chest that marks him forever as touched by violence.

Touched by magic.

A huge patch of scar tissue covers the left hand side of his chest, nearly from shoulder to hip, and across his belly. His left nipple is gone, burned off from the force of the inferno spell that splashed back against him. Most of the scar is silvery, but there are deep red patches where the skin was burned away instead of seared.

It is not a pretty scar.

She steps forward, and he braces himself, not against her touch -- in truth he has little sensation across the worst of it -- but against her revulsion. Instead she leans forward, presses a small kiss over the empty spot where his nipple should be.

 _That_ he feels. A fluttering touch of warmth that sinks through his chest and goes straight into his heart.

He cups his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, pressing his mouth down upon hers. She tastes faintly of his pre-come, and he can feel -- mostly -- the squash of her breasts against him. His erection is trapped between her belly, and his, and she squirms against his cock.

“Cullen… Cullen…” She gasps his name, and it’s only then he realizes he’s backed her straight up against the bed.

She arches back, and -- Andraste be praised -- buries his face in her breasts, cups them. _Maker,_ there’s more than he can fit in each hand. His thumbs find, and worry at the tender points, and she cries out, pulling his mouth down upon them. He draws each nipple into his mouth. First one, then the other, and back again. Then presses both her breasts together, and sucks at both nipples simultaneously.

He suckles her for a long, long time. Drinking deeply of her cries and shattered moans. She writhes beneath him, begging, and when he finally, finally pulls his mouth from her breasts, they are slick from his tongue, nipples bright pink from his attention.

“Please, Cullen!” She pants, hips lifting. “I -- _oh!”_

He slides his tongue down her body. He can taste himself against her belly, and swears, breath gusting against her as he settles between her open thighs. He’s licked her cunt before, but never like this. With her legs thrown wide, gripping at his hair, pressing him closer. Her hips gyrate wildly, and he chuckles, throwing her knees over his shoulders. Spreading her further.

“You’ve never been more beautiful.” He murmurs, and bends his head.

He tongues every inch of her sex. Every crease, every fold. Runs the edge of his teeth against her clit. He presses his fingers deep, and deeper still, finding the angle that makes her buck against him and cry out.

He drags her gasping, to the edge of orgasm. She’s _close_ , but he wants to watch her come. Wants to feel her shudder around his length. So he pulls back, ignoring her plaintive whine, and slides the head of his cock deliberately through her gleaming folds, before _plunging_ into her.

He makes a deep, guttural sound as he fills her. Watches as she writhes on his cock, begging with broken sobs for  him to move, to fuck her to --

He reaches between them, flicking his thumb against her clit, and she arches off the bed, keening. He feels her flutter around him, and has to remember not to close his eyes and give into the sensation. Instead he watches, thumb worrying at her nub, as she bucks against him, face flushed, and mouth open, and rounded with pleasure. She thrashes, briefly, calling his name.

“Cullen, I -- _Cullen!”_

“So beautiful.” He growls, thumb restless against her sensitive flesh.

She comes. Arches half-off the bed and shrieks. Her legs draw up and he has to grab onto her to prevent her from kicking him off. She shivers, beautifully, the clench of her cunt drawing him still deeper.

He kisses the arch of her foot as she stills and, readjusts her legs over his shoulders before beginning to thrust. True to his promise he is slow. Drawing the full length of himself entirely out of her before pushing in again. And again. And again.

And again.

A slow, torturous pace that has her swearing beneath him. She clamps her thighs together, squeezing his head, a little.

_“Stop teasing.”_

He manages a breathless chuckle between her -- surprisingly -- muscular thighs. “As my Lady commands.”

But instead of thrusting, he _flips_ them, sending a puff of dust into the air, and ending with him on his back, and her astride.

It’s better this way, he thinks. She controls the pace and depth, and he lets her. Glorying in the sight of her riding him. Her breasts bounce tantalizingly as she thrusts against him, and he reaches with one hand, cupping the weight, exploring the curves and valleys of her body with the other.

Her hands are restless too. They slide up and down the muscled planes of his torso, heedless of his scars. But when she leans over him, cupping his face, he realizes the true advantages of the position.

Her breasts slap his face. And he glories is the vulgarity of it, lifting her hips and thrusting up into her with quick, sharp jabs, so that they bounce even more. It’s too tempting then. He draws a single nipple into his mouth, sucking fiercely, trying to fit as much of her breast into his mouth as he can. She moans, grinding down, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Maker, I --” He rolls her under him. Pounding furiously as her cries lift and break, and it is all he can do to remember to pull out as his own orgasm shudders through him. He roars her name as he comes, and she, his.

He strokes himself until he is empty, then slides his still-hard cock back inside her, fitting them together again before collapsing against her. She strokes his hair, whispering heartbreaking endearments that sink in and fill the dark, empty corners inside him. And Maker, he _wants this…_ wants her.

Bolstered by her words, and by the connection of their bodies he leans over and kisses her temple, ignoring the slight grit of dust mixed with sweat.

“We could… use this cabin… for us. Stay here.” He says, voice breaking. Breathless with emotion as well as exertion. “Together. If… if you want…”

“Leliana didn’t talk to you… did she?” She takes a ragged breath, and already he knows.

_Damnit, Rutherford, what were you thinking?!_

“She… Cullen, we _can’t.”_ Trevelyan is close to tears.

“We don’t have to,” he says, backtracking. Draws her closer, gently, as though she might break if his touches her too urgently. “We can just --”

“We can’t.” She insists. _“At all.”_

_No._

She twists away from him and he slides out. He presses his hips forward, as if seeking re-entry, horribly bereft.

“What do you mean?” His voice is level. Almost flat.

“We can't… be with each other anymore.” She shoots him an agonized look. “Not now. Not until the breach is closed.”

“I don't understand.”

“Before all this, before the breach… the Inquisition was founded to bring peace between the Mages and Templars. Weren’t they?”

He takes a slow, deep breath. The war. It is always the war. “That’s why I agreed to join the Inquisition, yes.” He sits up, knee sliding through a cold, wet patch of come, and sighs.

“I know that it looks like the Inquisition is somehow _siding_ with the Templars over the war, that _I’m_ siding with the Templars…” Her hands are curled tightly into fists. One hand glows.

He reaches over, frowning, gently uncurling her fingers. Resisting the urge to kiss her fingertips. “I _had_ been meaning to thank you.” He says, softly. “For… agreeing to reach out to the Templars. That was not…” He clears his throat, “I had not, expected such a decision.”

“Leliana wasn’t happy about it.” She admits with a small grimace. “We’ll find a way to close the breach, somehow. But we’ll have an easier time bringing about peace if we work _with_ the established forces… The Chantry… the Order… if we bring change from the _inside._ Everyone sees the _Mages_ as starting the war --”

“They didn’t.” He insists, surprisingly them both. “Or… not entirely. We -- _the Templars_ ,” He grimaces at the slip, small as it is. “Were as much at fault. If not more so.”

“I know.” She says, softly.  “Leliana… she’s right. The Templars… if we want their help… if we want the _Chantry’s_ support… Cullen, they’ll _never_ accept a Mage with a Templar lover.”

“Former Templar.” He says. He can hear the bitterness in his own voice.

“Former Templar.” She agrees, and cups his face, tenderly. Tears hang on her lashes. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Choose the mages.” He says, instead.

Their eyes meet, a small flash of humor lights between them.

The corner of her mouth quirks up, but the smile does not reach her eyes. _“You_ convinced me to seek out the Templars.”

“Maker, if I’d know I’d drive you away --”

“You didn’t.” She breathes, and wraps her arms around him. “But we can’t…”

“I know.” He whispers back. “I do.”

They are silent for a long, time. Wrapped round each other. Unwilling to leave. Memorizing the feel of each other’s skin. And when he presses a small, soft kiss against her breast before rising to go, he promises them both, it will not be the last.

He dresses, stiff legged, and walks back out into the snow, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, and IS so long. All of the plot felt too necessary to the chapter to drive away entirely. 
> 
> I'm guessing 2 more chapters left for the prequel.


	4. Prequel IV

Haven is like a Circle now.

The reasons _why_ may be different, but the result is the same. She bends her desires to the expectations of others. What she says. What she does. Who lays claim to her heart.

And if she is again a Circle Mage, Cullen is again a Templar. Distant. Silent. Untouchable. _There,_ but always one step farther away than he needs to be. His eyes slide away from her. His back turns.

At first, she is glad of the distance.

It is hard enough to see him and not _want._ Harder still, not to weigh every look and gesture, and wonder if that want is obvious to all. Worry that, if it _is_ , she puts all of Thedas at risk.

Yet, as the days slide into weeks, and then, into months, she can feel the strain of it all, like cracks upon her skin. And wonders instead if she is the only one still pretending, or if, for him, it is simply over.

It takes time to gain entry to Therinfal Redoubt.

There are _delays_ . Despite their growing fame, Lord Seeker Lucius seems entirely disinterested in the Inquisition, until she extends the offer of a _personal audience_. And then, three Templar envoys arrive in such close succession with invitations to Therinfal, they all but trip over each other at Haven’s gate.

Josephine and Leliana are pleased. Cullen far less so.

“It’s a trap.” He repeats, for the seventh time, banging his fist against the war table for emphasis. “Are you all blind? It’s a trap.”

Leliana arches a thin brow at him. Again. “Then by definition, Commander, it cannot be a trap if we are forewarned.”

Josephine sighs, and finishes the last of her notes with a flourish. _“There._ The names of twelve noble families who will accompany the Herald to Therinfal. Surely you cannot believe that the Lord Seeker would be careless enough to try to harm the Herald with so many nobles in attendance?”

Cullen makes a short, angry snort of disbelief. “If you think the Order is overly concerned with witnesses, noble not, you are sadly mistaken, Madam Ambassador.” He points to the outline of Therinfal on the map, finger skirting around the Herald’s marker. “At this point, Lucius controls half the Templars in Ferelden. He’s more than enough men under his command to do whatever he wants, to whomever he wants, and very little to be done until it is far too late.”

Josephine clamps her lips together, a thin line of disapproval, as eloquent as all of Cullen’s angry bluster. “Still.” She says briefly. “The Herald shall have the support of the nobility. A paper shield is better than none at all.”

An ominous silence descends upon the war table, hanging heavy and low, like a raincloud.

“It is not too late.” Leliana offers, almost quietly. “We could still seek out the support of the Mages.”

Cullen looks up -- meeting Trevelyan’s eyes for the first time in several days -- then swiftly away.

“No.” She says, tightly. “Cullen was right. We can’t be sure that adding _more_ magic to the Breach won’t make it more unstable that it already is. At least the Templars will have the means to nullify it if it starts to unravel.”

“Then it’s settled.” Leliana nods. If the Spymaster is upset by her decision, she does not seem so. “Who will you take with you?”

She pauses, considering. She has a small pile of markers, specially made by Harritt. Each one represents one of her companions, those she’s gathered to join their cause. Mages, Rogues Warriors. She touches each one in turn, thoughtfully. It must be a small party. Even a miniature show of force could come off as aggression.

She takes a deep breath. “Cassandra… Vivienne… and...” She places each marker besider her own, lips pursing. “The Iron Bull.”

Her three advisors look at her in unison, surprised.

She shrugs, one-shouldered. “Cassandra and Vivienne both think highly of the Order. Bull will assume they’ll jump us at any moment.”

She glances at Cullen. He’s once again looking down at the map, but something in his expression shifts. A subtle unwinding, though his color is still high.

Leliana nods, satisfied, and Josephine dips her quill, setting their plans in motion. Cullen hunches at his end of the war table, glowering, though he makes no more protests.

The rest of the council is formality; small matters that need her attention before she is off. A flurry of gold brocade and raven feathers, and then, the war council is concluded.

The doors of the war room swing open, then shut with a sort of sinister finality, and, suddenly, she and Cullen are alone for the first time in weeks.

Cullen’s head is bent, a deep crease between his brows, still red-faced from the outcome of the council, and staring at the markers surrounding Therinfal Redoubt, as if he could somehow will them into a more appropriate configuration. She should go. He either hasn’t noticed she’s there, or, is ignoring her. In either case, he probably would not welcome her company.

Not anymore.

She _should_ go.

But…

The tips of her fingers tingle, remembering the feel of his skin beneath them. Soft and warm. The coarse prickle of his beard. And he’s close… so close...

She slides her hands across the top of the map toward his. Slowly. Carefully. Almost…

Cullen’s fingers curl back, away from hers at the last moment, evading her touch. _“Don’t.”_  His voice is soft, and strained, but final

She nods, pulling back, blinking hard against the sudden prickle of tears, and turns, not wanting him to see.

But she has to say _something_ or --

“Cullen I’m--”

“I’m sorry.”

“-- sorry.”

Two sets of apologies crash into each other. They glance at each other, then away. Equal parts startled, and embarrassed. A horrible, charged silence falls between them. Stretches. She wants to leave. Isn’t sure she can bear to hear him say that it’s over. _Really_ over. That whatever he felt has withered and died after months of lying to themselves and the world.

She fists her hand tight against her abdomen, feeling sick. She doesn’t blame him. It’s her fault, afterall. She’d taken too long growing the Inquisition’s reach. Too long to secure a meeting with the Templars. Too long to seal the breach.

It’s too long to expect him to wait. To wait for her.

Shes takes a deep breath, meaning to grant absolution, but Cullen speaks first.

“I miss you.” He admits. A small, ragged confession.

Her heart trips over itself, stumbling over the next several beats.

When she turns to look at him, he’s looking back. Eyes golden, and hopeful, and locked onto hers. His features blur and waver, as tears fill her eyes again.

She looks down, still shy. “I… I wasn’t sure you still felt--”

_“Always.”_

Their eyes meet again, and this time he’s breaks eye-contact first, flushing. “I _will_ always…” Cullen clears his throat. “Well… _Maker.”_ He swears softly, runs his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. He looks like he would say more -- or possibly, _less_ \-- but his jaw clicks shut, and he glowers down at the map instead.

She hesitates only a moment before reaching across the table for him again. He doesn’t recoil, but when she brushes the back of his hand with her fingertips his head snaps up.

 _“Don’t.”_ He says again, voice tight, ears bright pink. “Or I’ll have you right here on the war table. _Right now._ And the Chantry be _damned.”_

She blinks.

Arousal surges through her so suddenly it’s as though someone has lit a lightning rune beneath her skin. She moves half-a-step closer, and his fists clench in response.

 _“Herald.”_ He growls in warning.

He hasn't called her anything else since that afternoon in the cabin. It’s a stark reminder of the situation they face, and her mind clears just enough -- just barely enough -- that she moves away instead.

Cullen’s eyes close, and then sighs, deeply.

They’ve a moment of warning, voices just outside the door, before Vivienne bursts into the war room, Bull and Cassandra at her heels. At once the Seeker begins to elaborate on the layout of Therinfal Redoubt, modifying -- just slightly -- where she’ll meet with the Lord Seeker, and how the flanking nobility shall be arranged.

Cullen listens for a moment before ordering his notes, leaning in towards Bull, and mummering. “It’s a trap.”

The Iron Bull scoffs. _“Of course,_ it’s a trap.”

Satisfied, Cullen leaves.

\--

In the end, Cullen -- and Bull -- are right.

At Therinfal, the first time the demon shows itself to her, it is wearing Cullen’s face. Harsh, and wrong, but undeniably _him._ Terror rises within her for a moment before she realizes. But she’s already moving towards him -- towards _it_ \-- when it pulls the blade on her.

There isn't pain, precisely. But she feels the strike of it slide in. A deep sense of being invaded, and pressure. Her hand slides up his forearm, slick with her own blood.

His eyes glow green, not gold, and he vanishes in her arms before she can call his name. The wound vanishes with him, too.

The next time she sees Cullen, is worse.

She’s heartsick, and completely exhausted.  And when she comes upon him trapped in a dungeon, thin and broken, and _begging_ for a reprieve, she knows enough about the demon’s game not to try to claw apart the cell with her bare hands. There’s a deep mottled bruise along his jaw, and when he opens his mouth on a ragged sob, she can see he’s missing several teeth.

She turns her back on him, and walks out of the dungeon entirely. But her legs no longer tremble with exhaustion, but _rage._

It is that rage that carries her. Past the point when she would drop. On and on until the demon has no more faces. Just a monster who claws around her insides, until she tears it from her back.

The fight it not over, even then. But it is a fight of flesh. Of magic and metal. Not a clash of will. And this time, she is not alone.

Bull lands the final blow against Envy. And she secures the Templar alliance practically atop the demon’s remains.

It is done.

\--

She’s almost back at Haven when the terror of the experience finally hits her. Upon her return, when Leliana calls for an official debriefing in the war room, she declines. She declines a visit from Josephine. From Cassandra. From Mother Gisele. Bull and Krem park themselves outside of her cabin, and for the next two days she is left in relative peace.

They’re still there, driving away visitors and messengers alike, when she hears Cullen’s voice, snapping angrily, and Bull’s answering rumble. Instinctively she rises, drawn by his voice, and is halfway to the door when it opens, and Cullen steps inside.

He freezes when he sees her, expression blank, mouth hard. “Are you alright?”

She nods, mutely.

He steps fully into the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

It is nearly dark inside, and quite cold. The shutters are all drawn, and no fire burns in the hearth.

She must look a wreck, only half-dressed. Hair in a wild tangle. She raises a hand to straighten it self-consciously, but gives up. It doesn’t really matter, after all.

“I’m sorry.” She says suddenly, surprising them both. “So, _so_ sorry. That I took this long to… and I couldn’t… the Templars --” Her voice breaks on the last word.

Cullen crosses the room in three long strides, and kisses her, hands against her face. His thumbs brush at the wetness on her cheeks, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t stop. The breath gusts out of her, half a sob, and half a sigh, and he swallows every sound. Her arms wrap around him, hesitantly at first, but with a growing surety, until she’s pressed flush against him, fingers tucked into the edges of his armor.

 _“Don’t apologize.”_  He says fiercely when they finally pull apart. And kisses her again before she can respond.

She melts against him for a moment. Letting the exhaustion, and the lingering sense of vertigo leach from her bones.  His mouth opens beneath hers, and for long, long, moments there is only him, strong and sweet. And the small broken sounds she makes do not belong to such a moment, but she cannot seem to stop them.

When he stops kissing her the second time, Cullen takes a deep shuddering breath. “You’re breaking my heart.” He whispers. “I cannot bear seeing you so -- do _not_ say you’re sorry!” He snaps, seeing her expression shift.

She doesn’t.

Instead she sits down on the bed, wrapping one of the blankets around her shoulders.

“Leliana gathers the history of every member of the Inquisition.” She says.

Cullen blinks at the rapid shift in conversation, but goes to sit down beside her. Threads his fingers around hers, until they are holding hands. “She does, yes.”

“Have you read mine?”

She can see his cheeks color, even in the dim light, but he doesn't let go. “It’s… yes.”

“And?”

“It was short.” He says, almost apologetically.

She snorts. “I bet. Mage gets sent to the Circle, the end.”

“Not quite, but nearly.” He grimaces, and shifts slightly on the bed. “It had a bit about your family too. Your older siblings. It made much of their exploits, but had very little to say about you.” He looks very much like he’d rather be kissing her than speaking of Circles, but after a moment he sighs, and offers her a one-shouldered shrug. “I… admit I don’t know much about the Circle in Hossberg.”

“That isn’t surprising.” She makes a sound that isn’t a laugh, but might be mistaken for one. “It’s small. And… and not really _in_ Hossberg. It’s just there isn’t much else around that part of the Anderfels, and the Circle of Absolutely-Nowhere lacks a certain splendour. But it was small. Out of the way. Full of old Templars, or ones whose families were indebted to the nobility. _Safe.”_

He frowns, noticing how she bites off the word as if it is distasteful. “You were lucky, then.”

 _“Wealthy.”_ That word is just as unsavory in her mouth. “It wasn’t luck. My family expelled considerable expense to insure that I was sent there. To a small, safe Circle where I would never be mistreated. Never know that Mages _were_ mistreated.”

He sighs, and presses her against him. She’s not sure if it’s a sad sound, or a relieved sound.

“Before _all_ the Circles fell, the things I heard about them... about the other Circles… the stories… I thought they were just… stories. They even seemed _romantic,_ to me. Templars battling demons. Mages running away. Starting revolutions… I didn’t -- I’d never even _seen_ a Tranquil, Cullen.”

“It’s all right.” He reaches out and brushes his thumb across her cheek. “It is.”

“It _isn’t.”_ She insists. “In Hossberg… it was just lessons, and love affairs, and miles, and miles, of emptiness. I am the absolute _last person_ who should have survived the Conclave, Cullen. This… _mark_ whatever it is, would have been _infinitely_ better in the hands of someone who hadn’t spent their lives spoiled and _stupid._ I shouldn’t be the Herald. I shouldn’t --”

Cullen rises up, suddenly, and half-tackles, half pushes her back onto the bed. One of his hands, still wrapped up in her own, the other, pinning her wrist up above her head. “Stop it. Just _stop it.”_ He’s pale. Expression oscillating between anger, and hurt, but doesn’t quite shift into either.

And though she can feel her hand trembling in his own, feel the tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes and into her ears, she doesn't look away.

He looks miserable, and very much at a loss for words.

He _does_ kiss her then. Long and desperate, and she can feel his growing erection trapped between them. She can think of a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t, starting with Ser Barris, freshly arrived at Haven, and in charge of the traumatized shambles of the Ferelden Templars; and ending with the House of Abernache, and the explanation they are owed as to why their sole heir was murdered while leading the Herald’s diplomatic retinue.

Still…

Her hips lift, meeting his, and Cullen groans into her mouth. He pulls back, just a little, enough to press his hand against her cheek -- the other is still tangled with hers -- and strokes his thumb against her lips. He looks like he’s… _searching_ for something, but she’s not sure what.

Then he closes his eyes, and whispers her name. And the _want_ that fills his voice is more than she can bear.

“Please Cullen… I need…”

“Maker.” He swears, and the hand against her cheek glides down, and starts to ruck the long, and over-large tunic she wears for sleep, over her thighs.

She helps him with her free hand, pulling the hem up over her waist, but he doesn’t stop there. Pushing the fabric higher, and higher, until it’s bunched up over her breasts, and well... she isn’t wearing smalls of any sort. Cullen gazes down at her, eyes dark with lust, a half-stunned smile caught on his lips. He swallows, audibly, and his left hand traces up the gentle curve of her belly, and curls around one of her breasts. Her nipple draws taunt with a flick of his thumb.

She tugs at the laces of his breeches, and after a moment, he helps her. It’s awkward, each of them with only the one hand, but neither seems interested in letting go of the other. Their hips keep bumping together, eager to join, and when he finally frees his cock, Cullen wastes no time in sliding himself between her thighs.

His back arches, deeply and he groans. “Holy, sweet blessed Andraste -- _shit!”_

Wet as she is, it’s not the easiest entry. She’s been celibate for months and Cullen is quite large. The tip of him opens her, the stretch bright, and delicious, and slow. He tries to go carefully as he fills her, inch by inch, but at the last, his hips jerk forward suddenly as he hilts himself. She writhes beneath him, fighting against the unfamiliar sensation a moment before she can feel the struggle shift, hips seeking friction instead.

She opens her thighs further apart as he begins to thrust, bracing himself over her with one hand. The fingers of his other hand tighten -- almost painfully -- around hers, but she doesn’t pull back.

Cullen tries to be gentle. She can see himself fighting the urge to simply sate himself upon her. But with each thrust he loses a little more ground, and the awkward, half-hesitant stutter of his hips quickly slides into a hard, almost jarring cadence.

She cups his buttock one-handed as he rides her, and pulls her knees towards herself, farther, and farther, until he hits so deeply that the pleasure of it rockets up her spine.

They both try to be quiet. Cullen’s teeth are fixed on his lower lip and she’s bites on the fabric of her tunic in an effort to muffle her cries. His single arm, bearing all of his weight trembles slightly, and when he shifts, pressing more of his bulk against her, his hips grind against her clit. Her answering cry is loud enough that he tears his gaze from her body, surprised.

“Yes…” She moans. “Cullen, yes! _Please!”_

He blinks, dazed, and grinds down again on the next thrust, his forehead nearly pressed against hers. _“Maker.”_

They re-learn how they best fit together. How deeply he can drive into her, and what angle make him shiver and trip over his prayers. They try to savor this brief, forbidden connection, but there’s a desperation that lays over them both. A hunger, roughening their touches. And by the time her pleasure reaches its peak, she is nearly sobbing beneath him, overwhelmed.

“Hush.” He urges, breathless. “Love, hush.”

She’s not sure if she hushes or not.

The strength of her orgasm nearly bows her off the bed, and Cullen’s hips stutter, trying to keep pace. His orgasm chases her own, and he pulls out a handful of thrusts later, cock nearly purple, rock-hard, and slick with her pleasure. He groans, shudders, but he hasn’t a spare hand to guide his release.

His cock bobs in the empty air.

 _“Please.”_ He begs.

The hand grazing his buttock lifts, and settles around his cock. She strokes his hardness, holds him as he thrusts into her hand, as the sounds he makes lift, and break.

The first splash of come hits hot across her belly. The next, slightly higher, paints her ribs. She could direct his cock away from her, but she doesn’t. She angles him as he comes, rubbing circles against the head of his cock, until his seed is splashed across the underside of her breasts.

Cullen’s breathing heavily, eyes fixed at staring of the mess he’s made of her. He looks equally mollified, and still terribly aroused. His cock throbs in her hand, hard as ever, and for a moment she wonders if he’s turned on enough that he’ll simply press back inside of her, and start again. She’s about to suggest it when he sighs deeply, and rolls until he’s lying beside her, their hands still linked.

There’s a pitcher of water by the bed. He dunks the cloth draped over the ewer into it, and fumbles, wringing it out one-handed. It’s still sopping when he brings it to her, but when she reaches out to take it he shakes his head.

“Let me. Please.”

Water drips down her sides in tickling fingers as he cleans her. Her nipples tighten under his touch and she can see his color -- already high -- pinken his ears. She’s almost shivering by the time he’s finished. So he re-orders her tunic, and tucks her back into the bed as best as he can one-handed. Then he curls himself up beside her, stroking the sweat-slickened hair away from her face.

“Maker.” He shakes his head with a sigh and a small sigh. “I’ll never be able to keep my hands off you now.”

“It won’t be much longer.” She promises. “Once the Templars have settled in, we’ll go after the Breach.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. So he sits up, and kisses the back of her hand. His grip is slick in her own, but they’re still reluctant to let go, knowing it may be the last intimate touch they’ll have for a while.

“Rest.” He asks.

“I’ll try.”

“Tomorrow… tomorrow we can lay the plans for addressing the Breach.” He stands, and lets go of her hand with a visible effort. He turns to hide his face, tucking himself back into his breeches.

He’s nearly at the door when she thinks to ask. “What did you say to Bull to make him let you in?”

He pauses. “That you and I had grown up amongst Templars. That I might be able to help you understand what happened. To make sense of it.”

“And do you? Understand?”

A shadow crosses over his face and he pushes the door open to leave. “Too well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies on the long wait between chapters, been trying to outline the main story a bit, and have already written half of part 5. I wasn't actually sure I was going to manage to fit any sex in this chapter. *le gasp* But it ended up working out.
> 
> Wanted to give you guys a bit of a look at my Trev and her background, and why she and Cullen get along without any real Mage/Templar angst. It's all wrapped up in my massive headcanons about how the nobility deals with their mage children (when they don't abandon them outright).


	5. Prequel V

He’s hard.

Already. Still.

Haven is alive with revelry. The sounds of swordplay -- jeers, laughters -- and the peculiar clang of men dancing in full armor. Battle hymns, and Chantry hymns twining with drinking songs sung in a dozen languages. The smell of smoke from the bonfires scattered around Haven, and the sour notes of ale, and wine, and mead. The smell of sex from Haven’s darkest corners grows stronger as the night wears on, as the Inquisition celebrates the sealing of the Breach.

He stands at the edge of the largest whorl of merriment with a full mast, rock hard and  _ pounding _ erection. The post-battle high has always taken him thusly. With the need to spill his seed hard, and deep, and  _ now. _

Battle-lust has him by the balls, but still, it’s nothing compared to the fierce pride he feels when he looks at her.

Trevelyan wept when the Breach closed. Fell to her knees. Overcome with exhaustion and relief, and the  _ thunderous _ roar of the Templar horde around them. Now she sits on a barrel, red-faced from wine and triumph. Called to by a dozen voices. Touched by a dozen hands. She has never looked lovelier.

He means to send a prayer of thanks-giving to the Maker -- by all rights he should be on his knees in the Chantry -- but he whispers her name instead, let’s the warmth of it fill his mouth and his heart.

She turns, as if drawn by the sound she could not have possibly heard over the din around them. Their eyes find each other, and lock, and for a moment everything goes as still and quiet as though they were the only people in the world.

He watches as she passes her drink to Varric, and with a mummered word to Cassandra, starts towards him. It takes her a while to reach him. She’s stopped every few feet by those wishing to speak with the Herald, bless her,  _ receive _ her blessing. But as she makes her way to the edges of the crowd, her steps quicken, and when she reaches him, she nearly flings herself into his arms.

He half-catches, half-embraces her, one hand sliding -- rather inappropriately -- over her bottom before resting against her back.

“You did it. You did.” He whispers brokenly into her hair. “I always knew… always believed…”

His head dips, lips brushing against hers before he remembers, and pulls back.

“I--”

She makes  no demur. Simply slides herself back against him, and kisses him, urgent and hungry. His mouth opens by reflex, and he tastes her, wine and warmth, and his hips press forward against hers as a tidal wave of arousal -- starting at his groin and expanding to encompass his entire body --  _ rushes _ through him.

_ “Maker,” _ He pants when they pull away for air. “If we don’t stop now --”

“Don’t stop.” She insists wiggling against him. “It’s over. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks anymore. We don’t have to --”

_ He _ kisses  _ her _ this time, fiercely, joyfully, with a passion roughened by battle-lust and  _ months _ spent being denied her touch. He knew what the closing of the Breach meant for  _ Thedas, _ but in the midst of the celebrations, he’d forgotten what it would mean for  _ them. _

His hands roam over curves he’d imagined, memorized, and then tried to forget. He stills them, with a great effort, and presses his forehead against hers in an effort to calm himself.

They’re hidden only by shadow, and the scrum of half-grown trees, but he’s moments away from having her -- propriety be damned -- and the Chantry wall, cold, and hard, and only half-sheltered, is the best he can do.

He backs her towards it, stumbling over fallen tree branches, and slipped over hidden patches of ice, neither willing to untangle themselves from the other long enough to navigate through the darkness.

He presses her against the wall when they reach it, but keeps her braced an arms length away. “I can’t… I can’t be gentle.” He warns urgently, already pulling at the laces of his breeches.

She doesn’t answer at first, just presses him, grabbing his hips and pulling him tightly against her. She tangles her hands in his hair, and pulls his mouth back onto hers. He grinds himself into the crux of her hips in response, revelling in the feel of her against him, warm and willing and --

“Now, Cullen.” She pants, breathlessly, breaking the kiss only long enough to speak. “And  _ hard.” _

For a moment it’s just a blur of breath, and heat. He swears, a litany of filth no Chantry-raised should know, as frees the thickness of his cock with an impatient tug. He works his hands beneath her robes, where her thighs are bare and trembling, and raises the silken hem, fingers trailing against hot flesh as he cups her arse and lifts her bodily off her feet.

She gasps, squirming against him, half-pinned and desperate for his touch. She slides her mouth from his, and along the underside of his jaw, planting wet kisses in a line up to his ear. The soft, broken sounds she makes spur him, and when he tries to push her smalls out of the way he  _ yanks _ instead, rough and uncoordinated in his eagerness.

Something  _ rips. _

He can feel the ridge of lace beneath his thumb, and groans, open-mouthed against her, and, bolstered by the restless wriggling of her hips, yanks again, tearing through the strap on her smalls. When he drops what’s left, they slide down her leg, and catch on her ankle.

He slants his mouth over hers, catching her ragged gasp, grips her arse one-handed to hold her steady, and drags the head of his cock between the slickness of her folds, once, twice, three times,  before snapping his hips forward and  _ plunging _ into her. She makes a small, strangled sound, arching against the intrusion.

He wants to tell her how much he wants her --  _ needs _ her. Not just her body -- the heat of her, wet and hot -- but  _ her. _ Laughing. Smiling. Fingers quick and sure as she spellcasts -- how is it possible he could find  _ magic _ beautiful? Instead he groans, a sound deep, and ragged, and from his very core. He whispers her name, buries his face in her neck, and thinks that what he feels for her, is so much more than infatuation.

There’s a word he knows for this. Small, and sweet, and unfamiliar. He can taste its heaviness on the back of his tongue.

_ Love. _

It’s a word for young men.  _ Whole  _ men. But he his not foolish enough to believe such a word could ever apply to  _ him. _

Her hips shift in his grip, just slightly, and she whines. “Cullen,  _ please.” _

He shudders, thoughts scattering, and starts to thrust up and into her. Trevelyan keens. A high, bright sound, as he drags her along the length of his cock. Back, and forth. Harder, and harder, and harder. He must be bruising her against the unyielding stone of the Chantry wall. Still, it isn’t enough. He hooks his arms under her knees, drawing them up, spreading her for the deepest possible penetration.

He feels her cunt tighten as she comes, and the rush of joy that follows nearly steals his breath. She’s quiet, gasping and growling softly in his ear, breath catching on the sound of his name. Her fingers tangle in the curls at the back of his neck. He can feel his own release building, feels his balls draw tight against his body as his pleasure begins to crest. He’ll have her like this, he thinks, raw and hard. Then he’ll take her back to the Apothecary's cabin just beyond the gates, spread her out upon that large, four-postered bed, and spend the rest of the night worshiping the most secret places of her body.

“Yes…” He groans, thrusting. “Maker… yes.”

Close.  _ So close. _

He can feel her fingers tighten, nails digging into the skin at the back of his neck. “Cullen.” She gasps, suddenly. “Stop.”

His hips stutter to an abrupt halt. He must be hurting her. “Maker, I’m sorry, I--” He tries to pull out, but she’s clinging him too tightly. 

“No, Cullen.  _ Listen.” _

The din of merriment around Haven has stilled, replaced by a stunned sort of silence. A few cries pierce the night, unintelligible, but clearly rallying calls. But it is the warning bells, and their discordant, insistent clang shuddering off the mountainside, that sends unease spiraling through him.

_ It’s not possible... _

“Haven is under attack.” He says, throat tight.  _ “Go.” _

He slides himself  from her body, still hard, only a few strokes shy of coming. He tries to catch at her wrist as she turns, meaning only to kiss her fingers, but she slips from his grip and sprints off into the night.

It is only then he hears the howl of the Archdemon circling high above them.

\--

The Herald is dead.

Everyone says so. Eaten by the monster, or crushed by the mountainside. It makes no difference, really. Not to him. All hope and joy has been snuffed out of the world in an instant.

He hears Cassandra’s voice raised, louder even that the blizzard that builds slowly around them. They will rally, she says. They will not let the Herald’s sacrifice be in vain. They will remember. Rebuild. Triumph. A part of him knows he should be there with her, pulling the fraying seams of the Inquisition back together, fighting to preserve the organization that  _ Trevelyan _ had built. Instead he walks out into the snow as far as he dares, before falling to his knees.

With any luck anyone who sees him will think he’s praying, and let him be.

But he doesn’t pray. He falls apart.

The winds that buffet the Frostbacks catch her name as it falls from his lips, and whip the tears from his eyes before they can fall, or freeze.

He tries to offer a prayer of safe-keeping for her soul. Tries to ask the Maker to guide her to His side. But instead he ends up pressing his fists against his mouth to stop the sobs and bitter curses he hurls into the emptiness.

At some point Cassandra comes up behind him. Says things inconsequential things about enduring, and the Maker’s plan, and focusing on their true enemy. She drags him to his feet, and it takes a moment to remember how his legs should work, but he stands, and follows her.

He pays little attention to what Cassandra says, or where they are going. It is a sort of comfort. Not needing to think, or to feel, only to follow.

He does not know what draws his attention, a flutter of movement, a sparkle of light, a flash of yellow-gold against the bleakness of the mountains. But he’s running towards it before he can think to stop himself, heart in his throat.

_ Gentle Andraste, Bride of the Maker, please let it be... _

He gets his arms around Trevelyan just as she collapses. She smells of burning and blood, and for one horrid moment he thinks she has crawled out of the ruins of Haven, just to die in his arms.

_ Please, no. Please please… _

But --

“Cullen…” Her hand lifts, drifting to his cheek.

He cups his hand against hers, pressing her touch into his skin. Her warmth is much diminished, fingertips stiff and icy.

_ Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you -- _

“Don’t cry…” She says, weakly. Her eyes flutter closed, then open again. “It’s alright…”

_ “No.” _ The word sticks in his throat, thick and desolate. “You were… you nearly…”

“Don’t cry.” She says again.

He does, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for the Prequel guys. Thank you so much for sticking with me on this one. These 5 chapters were never part of the plan, but I'm so grateful for the prompt and so proud of the result.


End file.
